


Trials

by asweetcatastrophe



Series: Array Complete [5]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Gen, Politics, War, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-16
Updated: 2011-06-19
Packaged: 2018-12-14 18:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11788893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asweetcatastrophe/pseuds/asweetcatastrophe
Summary: After becoming Fuhrer, Roy and Riza are pressured to receive proper trials regarding their war crimes in Ishval. Written using various perspectives.





	1. A Normal Citizen

Former corporal of the Amestrian Army Paul Hastings leaned back against the brick wall adjacent to the cell, his eyes closing for a second as he tried to drown out the soft sounds of the cell's sleeping occupants' breathing. He had about five minutes before he would have to wake them and he needed that time to reflect.

This is the high point of my career, he thought to himself a tad morosely. Now instead of telling people that working as a prison guard is just irritating, occasionally violent work I can say that I was the one assigned to watch the imprisoned Fuhrer Mustang and his wife. As if that somehow makes everything so much more meaningful.

Sure it was technically an honor, certainly the highest honor he could receive in such a career, but it was so much easier to watch over thieves, rapists, murderers, to feel satisfied that they were cooped up where they belonged and it was his duty to make sure they stayed there, than it was to watch over two people who he was really starting to believe didn't belong there. Perhaps, he could relate to them too well.

Hastings knew from the beginning of his life that he was never destined for greatness and for a while that suited him just fine. He came from a family of firefighters who lived in southwestern Amestris near Wellesley, received the standard education for a suburban boy with no ambition, and followed the easiest path he could by becoming a firefighter like his brothers, uncles and father and marrying the pretty but dim girl he had been seeing for years.

The appropriateness of a former firefighter guarding the cell of the Flame Alchemist was not lost on him.

After a few years on the force and the birth of his daughter, he decided to enlist, growing frustrated with how stuck he was in his town and, although he had saved many people in his current position, he felt he had to do something grander and more consequential, ambition finally sparking within him after a few years of running through flames for strangers. He also gave credit to his daughter as inspiration. He had never really felt the need to make the world better for himself but making it better for her was an idea he couldn't shake.

After four years and a corporal's rank, Hastings was sent to Pendleton to fight in the Western Border War against Creta where he was severely injured enough to get an honorable discharge. With his limited options, he was able to procure a job as a prison guard but he was always put on very specific assignments since his prominent limp prevented him from a lot of the more severe cases. He could still throw a punch better than any of the other guards though, many of whom were also retried soldiers or MP. Around the same time, his marriage fell apart which he wholly blamed himself for because of his post traumatic stress and related depression.

Since then his life had been a drone. He had friends, occasionally went on dates, saw his daughter once a week and spent a lot of his work day lost in his thoughts but at 33 years old he couldn't find anything else to look forward to.

The time when Hastings had been recovering after his war injuries was when he started to get interested in politics. "A little late," his wife had said since he had been fighting for a government he knew nothing about for years. That was really why he became so involved. He had committed himself to something he didn't understand and would have to pay for it for the rest of his life; the least he could do now was stay informed.

He had never really considered his feelings about Fuhrer Bradley until after he had been injured when suddenly Bradley had become his personal scapegoat so he could lay blame elsewhere and revel in the man's demise. He still had a lot of anger back then that had numbed over the years into blaming himself for his own foolish behavior. Supposedly most Amestrians were either for or against Bradley based on how they felt about the Ishvalan War. He had been a teenager during Ishval, living on the opposite side of the country so that war, a war that was now back in the news again, hadn't affected him. He had nothing against Ishvalans but he had been more focused on trying to teach himself guitar and getting his girlfriend to let him get into her dress; national affairs weren't a concern.

But by the time Bradley had died he felt differently and suddenly the radio and the newspaper were a consistent element to his day, especially when he realized he couldn't do any of the physical activities he enjoyed anymore.

Fuhrer Grumman had taken power immediately preceding Bradley's death and Hastings truly had a lot of respect for the man. He was a bit strange, his speeches peppered with peculiar old-fashioned phrases and laughter, but he was committed to ending the Western and Southern Border Wars and in his mere three years as fuhrer-president he was able to fully end the Western War with some reparations that Amestris could feasibly afford and establish a rather shaky truce with Aerugo. This put him in good favor with most of the country except for the conspiracy theorists who were convinced Bradley had been murdered by Grumman's men and the ardent Bradley supporters who thought that ending the wars was a way of admitting defeat, accusing Grumman of being too soft.

When Grumman chose to step down, citing that it had been fun but he was more than ready to retire, the choice for the next fuhrer came down to two obvious candidates: Lieutenant General Olivier Armstrong and Major General Roy Mustang.

Grumman had supported Mustang, claiming that although he was rather young to be Fuhrer, he was more than capable. However, most of the upper brass sided with Armstrong who was older, more experienced and since she was not a former subordinate of Grumman's, her election would not seem so suspect. Hastings and many more liberal reporters believed that the brass also sided with Armstrong because she would be a stronger leader along Bradley's lines and many of them were still longing to keep the government fully in the hands of the military, a balance Mustang seemed to threaten.

At first Armstrong's election was met with mostly positive reviews from the population. Former Bradley supporters were happy to see a strong leader back in office (even if their excitement was lessened slightly by long-standing sexist ideas regarding women in power) and women were happy to see a woman rising to such a high level. Meanwhile, Mustang didn't quite leave the spotlight, continuing his four years and counting effort to rebuild Ishval and acting as something of an ambassador to Xing, further developing the relationship between their countries and building trade routes and transportation through the East Desert. He also advised Fuhrer Armstrong to smooth out their country's relationship with Drachma. In spite of her reluctance after having spent most of her career stationed on the Drachman border, attempts were made but not too much progress.

After four years of Fuhrer Armstong's regime with no substantial progress aside from an increase in military spending that many labeled as superfluous since Amestris was experiencing more peace than it had in its 400 years as a country and an increase in security that had mixed reviews, the people were clamoring for a change. Armstrong was not a bad ruler, but her priorities were not the same as those of the people and her harsh stance on issues left many more concerned than secure.

At this time Roy Mustang, now a General, started to become a name that would get thrown around a lot in the same breath with "potential fuhrer" as his ideas that had seemed so radical only a few years ago, seemed to be just what the country wanted.

Fearful of a revolution, the upper brass decided to take a risk by giving both Armstrong and Mustang time to give speeches to the public to see how they would be received, in hopes that the answer on who should rule would eventually become clear with the least damage done to the current political structure.

If Hastings hadn't been avidly interested in politics before, that period in time would have turned him onto it. Hell, everyone in Amestris from the high society to the lowest laborer suddenly had opinions on how the country should be run.

But, as expected, it wasn't just the speeches and the promises that the people were judging from. The personal lives of the two candidates became a topic of conversation as ruthless reporters started printing any bit of scandalous information they could get their grubby hands on, holding a direct sway on the public's opinion and subsequently, the brass'.

Throughout Armstrong's reign her popularity among women had waned dramatically, finding her unrelatable with her exceedingly masculine personality and her lack of attention to domestic issues that they had been hoping a woman would feel the need to address. Why was a woman of such high social standing unwed at the age of 45? The Armstrongs were practically Amestrian royalty; were there not suitors vying for her hand at one point? Did she prefer the company of women? How could we trust a leader to run a whole country when she had never had to run a marriage or a family?

Fuhrer Armstrong met these questions with an obvious answer: "I have committed my life to this country's military. My personal life is unimportant compared to that."

While many agreed that the answer was reasonable, the flood gates had broken and now everything about her was up for inquiry. Did her family's social status affect her judgment? Her position? Did she carry on any kind of life outside of her job? Did anyone outside of her troops truly like her? Want to spend time with her casually? Did she ever spend time casually at all?

When Fuhrer Armstrong's life was starting to get exhausted in publications, the focus shifted to Mustang who also held a similar single status and, on top of that, whose family and early life were rather shrouded in mystery. His background was searched first with initially very clean results: his father was an enlisted man from a small farming town who held the rank of master sergeant and his mother was a veterinarian whose parents were Xingese immigrants. They both died when Mustang was very young and because his maternal grandparents had moved back to Xing and his paternal grandparents were unfit to care for an infant, he had been taken in by his father's older sister who ran a bar in Central. School records showed that he was publically educated until he was 14, privately tutored in alchemy until he was 18, and graduated with high marks from Central's military academy at 21 when he was made a State Alchemist and commissioned as a major. Records showed that his Xingese grandfather was still alive and that on political business he would often visit him.

His record was perfect: a story of humble, somewhat tragic beginnings showing just what drive and hard work can lead to.

Until they looked a bit harder. When the name of Mustang's aunt was released no one thought anything of it until a few clever investigators made the connection between Chris Mustang and Madame Christmas' bar. The place was quite publically known as a hostess bar which, while in and of itself is not illegal, does hold implications of prostitution. Reporters picked this up as a direct connection to Mustang's reputation as a playboy that had been discussed by many generals who had expressed distaste for him in the past. Soon pictures surfaced of Mustang cavorting with women almost all of whom could be traced back to his aunt's bar and suddenly Mustang's credibility was slipping so fast it seemed he would be unable to recover. Chris Mustang organized deals with the reporters who threatened to ruin both her nephew's and her own career using her information network and they backed off quickly but there was still damage done.

In keeping with his previously stated policies of honesty and keeping the public informed, he requested to make a statement to clear up all the supposed fallacies in his character. He stated that he had never been involved with prostitutes and that he considered those girls who work for his aunt to be like sisters, taking great offense to the idea of them being labeled as prostitutes by the media. He also said that the supposed "playboy reputation" he had been saddled with didn't come from any sort of fact as, "anyone who knows me can attest. I haven't had a date in years," pointing out that one's reputation in such matters does not necessarily affect one's ability to lead a country. People snickered and rolled their eyes at his attempts at redemption, a reaction he had apparently been expecting because what he said next was so shocking and risky to his candidacy that he had to be telling the truth:

"While I am coming clean, I would like to clear up any other questions about why I am still a bachelor at my age. The truth is I have been in love with my aide and bodyguard Lieutenant Colonel Riza Hawkeye for many years but fraternization laws have kept me from making an honest woman of her. She, like myself, has given up everything she can to improve this country and that includes living a normal, safe life. If I become fuhrer, I plan on spending the rest of my life making that up to her and I gladly welcome the military and the press to investigate my relationship with her as they will find that no rules have been broken."

After months of reports and interrogations Internal Affairs had no choice but to conclude that he was right. There was nothing in the fraternization laws against being quietly in love with your subordinate if you don't act on it or let it lead to favoritism and bad judgment.

The picture of Lieutenant Colonel Hawkeye's reaction to the confession was on the front page of every paper in Amestris. Apparently, he hadn't run his entire speech by her beforehand.

Some wrote the love confession off as a publicity stunt, a way to gain the peoples' hearts, but many were intrigued, leading to Mustang giving a fuller explanation of his long history with her that was difficult not to believe.

During Mustang's first speech as Fuhrer Mustang, he announced his engagement to the now former Lieutenant Colonel, stifling anyone who still tried to claim that his confession had been a sham.

Since his election by the upper brass, Mustang had improved relations with Drachma and Aerugo, increased funding in technological developments, and began government reforms to start turning power back over to the democratically-elected Assembly while decreasing his own power as Fuhrer. Although the more traditional citizens who preferred the likes of Bradley and Armstrong remained unsatisfied, the public was very fond of Fuhrer Mustang after only a year labeling him as one of the best and most innovative fuhrers the country had ever had.

The public had also taken an interest in Lieutenant Colonel Riza Hawkeye, or as she was known now First Lady Riza Mustang. She was more serious than the Fuhrer, always dressed well, and while she was fine with sitting for interviews, she would often ignore reporters on the street and would refuse to answer any question she found too personal. Likewise, the press wasn't too fond of her. The people, however, did like her, finding her to be much more likeable and warm than Fuhrer Armstrong had been, changing the public opinion of military women, and very admirable in both her military career and her current charity work involving animals and orphaned children. She had been very open about the fact that she did not wish to sit back and be a society wife now that her military career was over and she had special authorization to carry firearms on her person since she had stated that she refused to ever stop being her husband's bodyguard.

But in spite of everything Fuhrer Mustang had done, there were still radicals who rallied for a leader without military ties, as if a taste of change brought on by Mustang's regime brought on a hunger for total revolution. Most were happy with Mustang gradually easing out of military-rule but these groups demanded Mustang step down or worse. They had opposed almost every Fuhrer in the last few years, trying to shoot down Bradley unsuccessfully on many occasions, calming down a bit with Grumman, and then calling Armstrong's election a joint oppression by both the military and the upper class. Now they had Mustang to target pointing out that no matter how much he tries to fix the country, it will never change the fact that he was labeled as the Hero of Ishval for slaughtering thousands of innocent people.

Mustang did not try to argue with the terrorists, instead stunning everyone by asking to be put on trial for the things he had done during the Ishvalan War, stating that, "I had done immoral things that have no place going unpunished in a peaceful society like we are experiencing now." He said he would like to represent all the alchemists and be tried as if he was not the leader of the country. Mrs. Mustang then expressed the same stance and wish, wanting to represent the foot soldiers and, in particular, the snipers who held identical orders to the alchemists: kill every Ishvalan citizen you see.

They were soon put into custody under Hastings' watch and trial dates were set as quickly as possible, the country being run by the brass and the Assembly in a joint effort until the matter was resolved.

They were allowed to be in the same cell, larger and separated from the rest, the kind usually reserved for important people or really belligerent criminals who needed to be separated from the pack or protected from the press. The cell was scarcely furnished as they all were with just bunk beds, a bucket with a wooden enclosure around it for a toilet and a sink with a lot of empty cell space. The Fuhrer and his wife had walked into the cell and quietly looked around as the doors slammed shut. When the click of the lock was heard, the Fuhrer had turned to her and said softly, "better than a trench" to which she nodded solemnly.

Hastings knew he had been asked to guard them because they wouldn't do anything that would require him to intervene. He was thankful for that at first but as the day wore on it was getting more difficult to watch the situation they were in. He understood war guilt, he had plenty of his own, but his would never have to be addressed in such a manner. If he had more ambition and intelligence (or at least the desire to learn) he could have easily been Mustang.

He tried to give them as much privacy as he could manage but he couldn't help but overhear their conversations. They didn't talk about their upcoming trials. They talked about other things: old friends and coworkers, books they had read, movies they had seen, the past, current affairs. Sometimes they would restlessly pace around the cell; sometimes they would sit next to each other on one of the beds but either way the air around them was comfortable even in silence. He would look into the cell when they got quiet and when they looked at each other he could practically see the unspoken words, see them reading each other's expressions. Hastings couldn't help but think of his ex-wife and how they had never been able to talk like that. It was difficult now to see how their relationship had been so fiercely doubted.

The worst part of the job was when he was supposed to watch them whenever they used the toilet which made him terribly uncomfortable. Generally there were things you assumed famous people did not do and that was one of those things. When Mrs. Mustang stood up for that purpose she would shoot him a pointed look and he would turn away respectfully even though he wasn't supposed to. Fuhrer Mustang didn't seem to mind but Hastings understood: being in the military has a tendency to wash away any sense of discomfort when it comes to having other men see you naked.

When night fell, they both curled up together on the bottom bunk, the Fuhrer's arms around his wife as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Hastings knew that if he had been in that situation with his ex, she would have called the bottom bunk for herself right away.

Fuhrer Mustang and his wife were not a publically affectionate couple. When they walked together, she walked a step behind him, clearly an old habit from her days as his aide that wouldn't die. They never hugged or kissed which was probably why the stalker-like photo someone had taken of their wedding kiss had gone for so much money. Their affection was subtle: holding hands while seated and small looks that could be easily read by anyone who has ever been truly connected with someone else. This was why Hastings felt like he was witnessing something especially intimate when he arrived that morning to wake them for their trials.

Usually he just banged on the cells without finesse until the lazy prisoners rolled from their beds and glared at him harshly. He just couldn't bring himself to do it to them though, instead rapping lightly at the bars in hopes that they were light sleepers. Soldiers usually weren't as they had to train themselves to sleep through anything including explosions and gunfire but perhaps that ability had waned in them over the years.

Fuhrer Mustang stirred a bit, leaning over to press a kiss on his wife's neck before saying in an amusingly whiny voice, "Riza, I thought today was my day off."

Opening her eyes abruptly at the sound of his voice, Mrs. Mustang glanced around the cell in confusion before realizing where they were. She looked over at the door to see Hastings standing there and abruptly hopped out of the bed, breaking her husband's grip, and almost literally standing to attention. The Fuhrer followed her upon realizing for himself, his movements slower and heavier. Clearly he wasn't the morning person.

"Sir," the Fuhrer said, nodding towards Hastings in greeting.

_The Fuhrer is calling me sir? This is wrong._

"Fuhrer Mustang, sir," he added in the word like he was throwing it back to him. He didn't want authority like that. "Your trial is in an hour and a half if you would like to start getting ready now."

He nodded. "Yes, thank you."

Hastings turned towards his wife. "Your trial will be this afternoon but if you would like to attend . . ."

"Of course," she said brusquely, cutting him off.

Hastings realized what a stupid thing that had been to ask. Why wouldn't she go to her husband's trial?

"Well, you can start getting ready also. Just as a warning, you'll have to ride in separate cars. There will probably be a lot of people surrounding the court house and it would be wise to not enter through the front." He had watched over prisoners with highly public cases before and learned a thing or two about protecting them from the media.

She nodded but didn't say anything, her expression somber as she turned towards her husband.

Hastings started to limp towards the door to get the guards who would supervise their preparation and transportation to the court house when he heard the Fuhrer call out to him, "Were you once in the military?"

Hastings stopped and shakily turned around.

"Yes," he mumbled hesitantly, limping back towards the cell slightly. "How did you know?" he asked curiously, wondering if there were files on him, if the Fuhrer had seen files before being imprisoned. Maybe he knew about his disorderly conduct or even the time he got in trouble for robbing a house on a dare when he was a kid. Or he could have just done what everyone else did and assumed from the limp.

The Fuhrer's lips curled up a bit into a small smile. "You have that look in your eyes," he said cryptically but with such guarantee that Hastings wasn't about to question him about what he meant. "Were you injured in battle?"

Hastings nodded shamefully. "Western Border War."

Fuhrer Mustang cast a defeated glance to the ground before looking over at his wife for a second. From where he was standing, Hastings couldn't see her face so he wasn't quite sure what they were communicating to each other, although he was sure seeing her wouldn't have made it clearer. They spoke their own language.

"You're the reason we're doing this," the Fuhrer admitted as if it was a secret he was keeping bottled up. "So that no one else will be harmed or killed in pointless wars. That's a cause I'm willing to die for."

Hastings looked at the Fuhrer, not as the leader of their country but as a man who just wanted to do something worthwhile. Like he had.

"As would I, Fuhrer Mustang."


	2. Walking Down The Aisle

It didn’t matter what entrance they used to get into the courthouse as the press had covered both the front doors and the supposedly-secret side door. MPs were fruitlessly trying to hold them back to keep a clear path for not just the defendants but also a slew of people who were going in to see the trial. Aside from the press, only people who knew Fuhrer Mustang and his wife directly were permitted to enter, having to flash special tickets at the guards by the door to get inside. Every twenty people or so the guards would have to turn away a counterfeit ticket or stop someone from trying to sneak inside.

Before the guards had even fully stopped the car Roy could hear the cacophony outside, every once in a while hearing journalists shout out names of his more well known subordinates as they were trying to enter the building in peace.

“Are you ready, Fuhrer Mustang?” the driver asked as the guard sitting passenger side got out of the car.

He didn’t have time to answer before his own door was opened and he was being pulled out into the light of the blazing sun and a couple pitiless flashbulbs. Three military policemen covered him as the guard started to lead him forward up the massive steps. Roy tried to drown out the sounds of a hundreds voices calling him name and hollering questions in hopes of an answer.

When he left the car he had done so with the intention of following Riza’s example and remaining tight-lipped in front of those “vultures on the street” as she sometimes called them in private. The courtroom was probably littered with reporters anyway who would take note of every little look that flinted across his face and write 300 words on it. He had been adamant in this stance until, that is, he heard a question that he knew he should have spoke of in some fashion before and never had.

“Why have you chosen to go through with this now?”

Roy stopped, surprising his guards momentarily but instead of pushing him forward they stopped with him, a sense of authority still existing in him despite his current predicament. He turned toward the general direction of the voice and immediately a microphone was thrust into his face as many journalists leaned forward, writing utensils at the ready.

He knew they were expecting him to address the current situation involving the radicals. He was supposed to mention how the people doubting his ability to lead and questioning why he is not being punished for his behavior during the war had made him want to clear his name. Or perhaps, he wasn’t supposed to say that explicitly but he was supposed to imply it. He was supposed to show the people that their opinions do matter and do have a sway in politics.

But this trial wasn’t about the people who doubted him. It was about the people who believed in him; believed that he would really bring about change. It was about the people of Amestris who had fought and died, some at his own hand. And, although he would only admit it to a few people, it was about his own personal demons that he knew wouldn’t go away even if he was found innocent.

So he told the truth, the part of it that he hadn’t already said. 

“I had always intended on addressing this issue during my presidency,” he declared, maintaining his confident, speech-giving voice that had gotten him so far. “The decision to take action at this time is because,” he paused slightly to make sure he maintained an even tone, “my wife and I would like to start a family and it would be irresponsible to do so before this issue is addressed should something go . . . unfortunately for one of us.” His face remained passive but a profound sadness was apparent in his dark eyes, an expression only those standing before him could experience.

Many reporters’ eyes went wide at his blunt approach to the idea that one of them might be convicted or even sentenced to death but then they quickly bowed their heads to finish writing what he had said as he continued walking forward, his head down slightly as he mounted the stairs.

\---

Riza sat in the back of the stationary car calmly smoothing out her skirt with her cuffed hands as she could hear the cries of, “Fuhrer Mustang!” dying down outside.

“We’re just waiting for the Fuhrer’s car to move, ma’am,” the driver said, taping his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently.

She didn’t say anything in response, turning to look out the window at the disappointed crowd as she watched him disappear inside. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she should have been the one standing behind him; not in another car with her own guards. She spent 14 years of her life watching his back only to have some unknown military policeman guarding it now.

She felt useless.

The car lurched forward a few feet and stopped as the guard sitting passenger side got out to open her door for her. Riza nodded slightly to the man and got out herself as she was suddenly surrounded by her own military police protectors and the cries of the crowd turning to, “Mrs. Mustang!” 

Although it would be easier to avoid the press by keeping her head down, she held her head up to show them that she was unashamed and secure in her decision to go through with this. Sure, they might think she is haughty but she had learned to stop caring what the press wrote about her after the first time she found her name in the newspaper.

She tried to drown out the questions, many of the ones that did slip into her ears were asinine queries that would be answered in the trial or were already answered before everything had started. She heard a few questions regarding “Fuhrer Mustang wanting to start a family” that she shrugged off as well. The day before he had asked her if he should mention it if given the chance and she said it was fine; they weren’t exactly trying to keep it a secret.

She was almost to the top of the steps when she heard one softly spoken, sincere question that caught her off guard and made her turn around to the one who said it.

“Are you worried about him?”

Riza looked down at the girl who had said it. She was definitely an apprentice as she couldn’t have been much older than 18 and she was wearing an oversized suit that looked like a hand-me-down, glasses and had soft, curly brown hair. She looked up at Riza, as she was very short and crouching down, and there was nervous fear in her eyes as if someone had warned her against heckling the first lady and she was now going to be punished by the ex-sniper for disturbing her.

Riza could imagine herself at that age: still shy around strangers but calm and sure as she entered the military academy, wondering if she would eventually be sent to Ishval, wondering if she would get to run into Roy Mustang again.

How would that girl feel about her now?

Riza got down on one knee so that she would only be speaking directly to the apprentice reporter as three sets of uneasy police hands landed on her shoulders to keep her from getting too close.

“Wouldn’t you be?”

\---

When Riza mercifully breeched the doors of the courtroom after running through numerous, superfluous security checks greatly resembling the ones she had before she even left the prison, she was met with a full room that was peppered with just whispering, a welcome change to the riot outside.

Considering the nature of the trial, it was being held in the largest room in the Central Courthouse which still seemed insufficient in containing everyone who wanted to attend. In the pews to the right of the center aisle sat reporters with files and notepads as electronic equipment had been banned from the room so no photographs or recordings could be taken. Most of them were silently focusing on writing and absorbing everything they could about the atmosphere before the trial actually began. Mixed among them were Assembly members and high ranking officers who were not close to either of them personally but apparently felt the need to attend regardless. There was even a pew of people in their early 20s sitting far in the back and taking notes who seemed to be from Central University judging by the fact that a few of them wore jackets or pins with the school’s emblem on it; either law students or political science or something. Their professor must be a god for swinging such a prime case study.

Riza frowned and turned towards the pews on the left which made her feel better to see some familiar faces. She walked towards the front row, undisturbed by the press who were demanded to remain quiet in the court room, and was met with many sorrowful looks or forced smiles by the people she knew. There were officers, enlisted men who had worked under Roy, Ishvalans who had worked with them during the rebuilding including Brigadier General Miles and Scar, girls who worked for Madame Christmas and a smattering of other people from different walks of their lives. 

The same people at the wedding just eight months ago, she thought to herself. That celebration seemed generations away from where she found herself now, surrounded by the same people who were now crying for a different reason as she walked down the aisle again.

Gracia Hughes was sitting nervously in the third row and gave Riza a sad smile as she passed, a handkerchief sitting in her lap. In the same row, Dr. Knox was pinching the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache and Riza knew he was reflecting on his own war crimes that had been a joint effort with Roy, the trial’s result surely affecting his own future. 

Maybe it would be better if the room was empty, she thought. Seeing the faces of people she cared about so worried about her and Roy was making everything harder; like she was being forced to no longer think about shouldering how the outcome would affect the two of them but how it would affect everyone in their lives.

The guards kept her moving forward until she got to the second row where she was stopped by the girl sitting closest to the aisle.

“Miss Riza!” Winry exclaimed, standing up and throwing her arms around the taller woman. “Oh, I forget that it’s Missus now,” she said softer, slowly releasing her grip. “That’s dumb of me, I mean, I was at the wedding and everything and,” Winry took a breath, realizing how her speech was coming out fast and choppy. She cast her a sympathetic look. “Are you okay?”

Riza tried to pull a smile in response but didn’t answer the question, glancing down at the rest of the pew instead who was all trying hard not to stare at her. Next to Winry sat Ed who was currently fixated on his hands as if he was waiting for his turn to speak, unsure what to do until then. Al sat next to him, Mei holding his left arm in hers as they pretended to listen to Alex Armstrong seated next to her, fervently trying to strike up a conversation to distract them all. As one of the last living alchemists who was part of the Ishvalan Campaign, even as a deserter, the outcome of Roy’s trial had a profound effect on his own future and he was well aware. The former Fuhrer Armstrong was sitting next to her brother with her arms folded across her chest, looking bitter enough to cause speculation among reporters that she had been forced to be there but she actually been one of the first people to secure a seat. Mustang may have taken her position from her but that didn’t mean she completely hated him. Captain Maria Ross and Master Sergeant Denny Brosh capped off the pew, exchanging glances occasionally but not finding any words to say.

Winry glared at her husband as a sign that he should say something. Ed quickly stood up and cleared his throat awkwardly, not very skilled at offering condolences.

“Er, I hope everything is, um, works out,” he spat out sincerely, running an anxious hand through his blonde bangs.

“Thank you, Edward,” Riza said simply as Al and Mei stood up too.

“What you’re both doing is very noble,” Al said sorrowfully, his gold eyes looking over at Mei nodding in agreement. “I hope that others can see it.”

“Thank you, Alphonse. I think I should take my seat now,” Riza said, trying not to sound too dismissive as she turned towards the front pew. 

She was not sure how many more words of hope she could handle before she broke completely. It had never been easy to cope with the idea that they might one day find themselves here but it was a different thing entirely to actually be facing it. But she was sure of one thing: she did not fear death, it wasn’t in a soldier’s nature to fear it, but she did fear living without him and that was something she had no intention of doing. They had made that promise long ago.

There were already predictions regarding the outcome of the trial saying that it was more likely that she would be pardoned for her crimes than he. Foot soldiers and snipers hadn’t initially been brought into the war solely to kill civilians like the alchemists had been and as much as guns were viewed as an inhumane invention, there truly was a different idea surrounding the use of alchemy as a weapon.

But it meant nothing to her if she was found innocent if he wasn’t and she knew he felt the same towards her. All of his crimes were hers as well, spelled out in red ink and scars on her back.

Her grandfather, the former Fuhrer Grumman, was sitting in a wheelchair next to the first pew, the result of a broken hip, wearing his dress uniform that now looked baggy on his frail form. Everyone had advised him against coming to the trials, saying that it would be too much for him emotionally, but he had, of course, hushed them all and said there was no way he wouldn’t be there even if he had to pay someone to carry him all the way.

When she reached his chair, he reached out for her hand, holding it for a second as they exchanged looks. She was getting tired of words and apparently it showed.

Sitting first in the pew was Madame Christmas, decked out in many strands of costume jewelry with the look of someone who had been chain smoking for hours without sleep. Riza took her seat next to her with Rebecca on her other side who took her hand in hers as Grumman had.

“Roy-boy will be fine and you will too,” Chris said to Riza, pulling out another cigarette from her bag. She didn’t sound very convincing but Riza nodded anyway.

After a moment, she pulled her hand away from Rebecca’s grasp so she could fold her hands and for a second pretend there was no one else there, that she would be the only one in the audience when Roy took the stand and that he would be the sole person watching her when it was her turn. She needed to compose herself before the trial began. 

Rebecca didn’t react to Riza’s dismissal, she had every right to deny comfort if that’s what she wanted, and instead rested her head on Jean’s shoulder as he was sitting next to her and shakily drawing a cigarette from his mouth. By the time they had gotten married he had been able to limit himself to only one a day but today she had insisted he smoke all he needed to. His other hand was resting on his old cane. It had taken him a few years to recover after his spinal cord had been fixed but he was having trouble walking that day so she had made sure they brought it just in case.

Heymans was sitting stationary next to Jean, his arm around his wife of many years, Margaret, who was red-headed, plump and had a beautiful face. Schezka and Kain were next to them, holding hands as Kain kept glancing behind him towards the doorway. At the last second Vato came rushing through the door, shrugging off his military-issued winter coat as he ran down the left-hand aisle, sliding in next to Kain and whispering something about a late train from the North.

This was Fuhrer Roy Mustang’s family: his wife, his aunt, his mentor, and his men; the family life, not birth, had given him.


	3. Only Just Begun

It wasn’t a matter of something they did or didn’t do. It was a matter of whether or not they should be allowed to walk free for what they had done.

\---

Roy kept his face calm, his eyes away from everyone in the room but the man who was questioning him. Those people most important in his life, sitting in the row in front of him, knew what he was going to say but he couldn’t bear to watch them as he spoke.

“My orders were simple: Kill every Ishvalan man, woman, and child, armed or unarmed.” It was a phrase he had said many times before but never in front of such a large crowd and he marveled somewhat at how callous he managed to sound as he said it. Even with his reputation for compassion, there was only so much softness the leader of a country could show before his authority is questioned and although he was being tried as a normal citizen, the title followed like a shadow.

“And how did you achieve this?”

He looked away from the man and focused on Riza unintentionally with her unwavering expression and her stoic composure. He wondered if somehow she would be brought into his trial, or at least if her father would be, but he was hoping where he learned alchemy was irrelevant. It’s not the alchemy that’s inherently bad but the way one uses it and both Riza and Berthold Hawkeye showed nothing but contempt for the way he had chosen to use it. 

In spite of her connection to the matter, she didn’t flinch at what she knew to be the answer which made him feel more comfortable replying.

“Using my flame alchemy.”

His tone stayed strong and loud enough to suppress the scribbling sounds of writing utensils on reporter’s pads, making it easier to block them out.

“Flames are rather uncontrollable, Fuhrer. How did you contain them in such a manner as to not kill your allies?”

This time his eye was drawn directly into the crowd he had been trying to ignore as Alex Armstrong made a sharp motion like he had been pricked with a pin, his own involvement manifesting itself. Even with his large stature, no one seemed to really notice outside of Roy and Olivier sitting next to him. He had wanted to avoid dropping any names if he absolutely could but Alex had every right to be tense. It was difficult to imagine this trial passing without any others trailing in its wake.

“I would work with another alchemist who would create barriers to prevent the flames from getting out of control,” he answered vaguely, hoping that would suffice.

“And was this your only assigned task? Working in teams with another barrier-building alchemist?”

“No. I was a commissioned officer as well as a State Alchemist. I lead a company,” he said with a bit more pride than anything else he had said. That was the only thing about the war he had been the least bit satisfied with: the manner in which he handled his troops and those brave men who he lead into battle.

“And is there some other special task that was requested of you?”

Roy narrowed his eyes slightly at the man. He knew something, something he was not at liberty to know.

 _If I walk free, the judicial system needs reforming as well_ , he thought distantly.

He had looked into the people who might become involved with his trial and the man before him had possible unconfirmed ties with some of the radical groups that had been trying to tarnish his presidency. The man had also done his research, even if some of it seemed to be of questionable legality.

If he could make this man believe him, he could convince anyone.

“A few times I was brought in to assist in medical experiments.”

Roy realized as he said it that he hadn’t been fully prepared to talk about that particular aspect of his time in Ishval, his voice weakening audibly as he spoke each word. He had rarely spoken of it to anyone outside of Riza, Maes, and Dr. Knox as it had been the most traumatizing part of his deployment. When he burnt down whole city blocks he didn’t need to see the eyes of his victims, only hear their screams, smell their burning flesh, let them all fall into rough statistics but when he was in that dirty room they called a lab, he could feel everything.

“And what did that consist of?”

“The government was conducting experiments on the effects of burns and pain on the body using Ishvalans as test subjects. The majority of the experiments were done of cadavers I had burned but I was called in a few times to run experiments on POWs.”

A few gasps spouted up in the crowd. There were still things about the war that had not been released to the public and truthfully those experiments were the minimum of the secret information. Your average citizen, heck your average officer, would never find out about the Philosopher’s Stone creations or the clandestine assignments to take out unfavorable Amestrians who assisted Ishvalans or opposed the war.

“And how did you feel about all of this?”

 _The facts were over; the facts that were mostly known. Here’s where my character is judged_ , Roy thought, considering his words carefully.

“I hated it. I didn’t understand it. I hated myself for being a part of it,” he said earnestly, making eye contact with the man before him.

“Then why didn’t you try to leave?”

_He’s challenging me._

“I was contractually obligated to stay. If I had asked my commanding officer if I could go home because I didn’t agree with the war or what they were asking of me to do, he would have told me there was nothing to be done. If I had tried to run, I would be killed. If I tried to run and successfully got away from the field without being shot dead instantly, I would be found, tried, and, if I was very lucky, thrown in a cell for years.”

Roy stopped for a second thinking about how everything he had said was true but that wasn’t the answer.

“I was a coward.”

A favorite phrase of Madame Christmas came into Roy’s head then: Better to stay with the devil you know.

_But I really knew nothing then._

\---

“You were still a cadet when you fought in the Ishvalan War, correct?”

Riza sat faultlessly still, hands folded in her lap as she replied with a flat, “Yes.” She kept her eyes trained on the man in front of her, watching him like the bird who was her namesake. Roy had warned her about him and she was not going to take his strategic probing.

“Why were you sent there?”

_Simple question, simple answer._

“It’s an academy requirement that all cadets have on-site experience during their final year. That was my experience.”

She could recognize her tone getting progressively bitter, hitting a notably acidic note on the last ‘experience.’ Being sent to Ishval had changed the entire course of her time in the military and it was difficult to try to imagine what would have happened if she hadn’t been sent right to the front and instead had done something like Rebecca had and worked in an office in New Option. It certainly would have colored the way she viewed the country differently and it was almost easy to imagine covertly hating Roy when she inevitably read the newspapers after the War was over instead of encountering him directly about how he had betrayed her trust.

That thought was rather frightening. 

“Were all cadets from your year sent to Ishval?”

_Either he’s going easier on me or he’s building up to something._

“No.”

“Then why were you?”

_That felt like a loaded question._

“They told me it was because I was one of the most skilled snipers they had seen in a while.”

She wasn’t sure if he was expecting her to give him some kind of drawn out and easy-to-follow answer to aide in explaining their selection process because in all honesty, she hadn’t received much information before she was deployed anyway. At that point they were desperate to get her onto the field what with the high number of casualties and the dire need for more trained snipers.

“How did you come to be sniper-trained?”

 _Some entered the academy having never held a gun before_ , she recalled, thinking back to her suppressed amusement at the confusion on some of the cadets’ faces the first time at the range. _After reading through all the interesting books in my father’s library, I found a new hobby in the guns in the attic._

“I was selected based on my shooting accuracy and grades.”

“And what were your orders once you got to the field?”

_Same question as Roy. Here’s where he gets down to it._

“To kill Ishvalans.”

“Were they specific about who?”

Riza looked to the side for a second trying to recall the exact words of her commanding officer at the time. She had tried to forget them but the chill of horror she had felt when he spoke them had stuck with her, enabling the words to follow.

“They said to shoot down all the armed ones and to not waste bullets on any others since that was what the alchemists were going to be for.”

_I hadn’t known civilians were going to be killed at all until I got there._

“Were you brought in before or after the passing of order #3066?”

 _This is the crucial bit_ , she realized, squaring her shoulders. _This is what decides whether I was behaving appropriately for a soldier in war or against humanity._

“Before . . . but just barely,” she specified in order to explain her previous statement. “I was brought in when the order was under discussion. The COs mostly assumed it would pass and that they would send in alchemists to end the war.”

_With genocide._

She bit her tongue to keep from finishing the sentence. She had to look out for Roy and, therefore, try to keep all statements regarding the alchemists involvement as vague as possible or at least be explicit that it was not the alchemists but those who passed the order who were to blame.

The man before her walked from his desk in front of her up to where she was sitting, his head down and raising up once he was right in front of her like he had been mulling over his next move. 

“Mrs. Mustang, why did you join the army?”

He was standing too close, trying so hard to break her exterior, so she looked past him to where Roy was sitting in the seat she had occupied during his trial. Jean and Rebecca had switched places so he and Roy were sitting next to each other and although Roy’s face betrayed no emotions, she could see his clenched fist resting on his knee. She wasn’t sure if he was angry over how she was being interrogated or if it had something to do with the question. Entering the military had been her decision but she would be lying if she said that he hadn’t influenced her in some way.

“There was a time I believed that the military was there to protect the future of my country and I wanted to be a part of that. The Ishvalan War shattered any illusions I had.”

She glanced back towards the man in front of her who looked a little too pleased with himself.

“If you supposedly lost faith in the military after the war, why did you finish at the academy and become a commissioned officer?”

Riza fixed him with a stare, honest, not cold as she answered with an even tone: “Because I had something new to believe in: a better future where something like Ishval wouldn’t happen again.”

Roy unclenched his fist.

\-----

“Tell me about your project to rebuild Ishval.”

The man looked up from a file on his desk that clearly held all the information he could possibly need about the project. Roy straightened his back as he recited his carefully worded explanation.

“During the time Fuhrer Bradley was in office, no proposed plans for assisting Ishval would be accepted so when Fuhrer Grumman took office, I proposed the idea, got it approved, and assembled a team to help with the reconstruction.”

_Explanation of why it took so long for something to be done because something should have been done right after the war was over._

“It has been a multi-step process of clearing out the damage from the war to make the land livable again, building homes and other viable buildings, and with the ultimate goal of making Ishval a self-sustaining area again.”

_Explanation of overall goals and thinly veiled future plans of Ishvalan independence because annexing their country was not fair to them in the first place, even though the public may not agree with me._

“In the years we’ve been working on this project we have been able to build and employ public schools that combine traditional Ishvalan education ideas with Amestrian ones, build houses of worship, build and equip a place for medical treatment, put in modern plumbing, and even build a few telephone lines, not to mention numerous homes and spaces for businesses. At this point less than 2% of the current Ishvalan population is living in ghettos as most of them have been able to move comfortably back to their homeland or are living well elsewhere in Amestris.”

_Explanation of accomplishments because that’s a small thing I can be happy about even if it is small in the great scheme of things._

_Politics are like an array: formulaic, each minor detail is vital to the end result._

“So you are the leader of this project?”

Leader was not the official title but Roy wasn’t about to become a stickler for vernacular. The problem was whether or not the man chose to be. 

“In title yes but I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without the team of people working there,” he said, his eye catching a glance at the team sitting in the middle of the pews, Miles and Scar looking as serious as ever.

“But you were the one who conceived and proposed the idea?” he clarified challengingly.

“Technically, yes,” Roy answered, unable to hide the hint of irritation in his speech.

“Technically?”

“I was hardly the first to think it. I was just the first to get it approved.”

_Explanation that shows I in no way take full credit for this project because I couldn’t care less who started it or lead it as long as I could have some small part in it._

“And why did you propose this idea?”

“Because an awful thing happened in this country and it’s the military’s duty to fix what they have ruined.”

_Explanation that proves I had good intentions even though good intentions have often lead me places like here._

“So you claim this idea came from pure altruism and not some kind of search for redemption?”

He had not been wrong in wondering whether the man might try to twist his words.

“I didn’t say that I did this out of altruism. It’s about righting a wrong,” he declared strongly. “And while there is probably an element of guilt to it, I don’t truly believe I could ever make up for what I had done.”

_Array complete._

\---

The night before the verdict would be given, Roy lay on the lower bunk in his cold cell, his head resting over his wife’s heart while she ran her hands in a slow massage up and down his back, trying to keep herself occupied. They had been quiet for a while but it was not the relaxed silence they were used to but a loaded one, filled with the discussion that were avoiding bringing up again.

What do we do if we both aren’t set free?

They had discussed it multiple times already but every time they came to a stalemate. Riza would insist that if she were to die, he would have to carry on to continue with his plans for Amestris and Roy would insist that if he were to die she would have to stay alive to make sure everything he was going to do still happened. He also mentioned the possibility that she might already be pregnant, insisting that there’s no way she could give up on life if there was someone else to consider but she maintained that she was sure she wasn’t yet.

The result that always brought about the most discussion was the possibility of one of them being sent to prison for life without the chance of bail since neither of them were sure what to do under that contingency. Roy knew that if only one of them were to get that verdict, it would be him and he couldn’t exactly rule from behind bars. All he would have left is her and only a few times a week at that. Death seemed so much easier than that torture.

Roy halted his train of thought and instead tried to think of nothing, imagining himself swimming in the lake he used to do laps in by the Hawkeye estate, trying to remember the feeling of his ears submerged with water so he could not hear as his mind was clear but for his mental voice repeating his goal of five more. The thumping of Riza’s heart was a good guide, constant like the laps, loud enough to drown out anything else.

But his mind kept wandering back to the steps of the courthouse.

He looked up at her, her face turned towards the emptier side of the room with her eyes transfixed on the gray wall like a movie was being projected there.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, wondering if talking would be better than this heavy quiet.

“Ishval,” she said simply, turning her head towards him, her busy hands slowing to a stop. “The night before we left.”

Roy cast her a poignant, fleeting look and ran his hand over her left shoulder blade in remembrance. He hadn’t been expecting to fulfill her request to destroy her tattoo so soon after she made it but she had pointed out that she didn’t know how long it would be until they saw each other again so she wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. He could hear the noises of pain that she made just as clearly as those of the people he slaughtered.

She had begged him years ago to stop apologizing for it but every time he saw the scars he wanted to say it, wanted her to remind him that she had asked for it and that he had nothing to feel sorry for, even if he didn’t believe it.

“Before I went to see you, I ran into Hughes,” she continued, her eyes focused on him as he sat up, pulling her towards him until she was almost in his lap, his hand still over where the scar tissue was hiding under her shirt. “When I told him where I was going he said something like, ‘I’m glad. You’re the one he needs now.’ I’m not sure what he meant by that.”

Roy thought back to that night and remembered how he and Maes had spent hours in his tent passing a bottle of whiskey back and forth, only one forth of which ended up actually being drunk by Roy. Later on he was thankful to have consumed so little when Riza had shown up at his door. 

“He was drunk,” he said, trying to lighten the mood a bit even though his effort was feeble to his own ears.

“I could smell,” she replied, equally as void of humor. “Had you been talking about me?”

“You came up,” he admitted casually. “He didn’t believe me when I said you were just an old friend.”

“I guess Hughes knew something we didn’t,” she said with a shrug as she rested her head against his shoulder.

“He was good at that.”

A silence fell at those words, and Roy knew he shouldn’t have said them. He knew they were thinking the same thing: that famed perceptiveness got him murdered.

It still hurt to think about him and Roy often found himself wondering how Maes would react to his choices if he was still alive. He could see him giving the toast at his wedding as best man or him berating him for his decision to put himself on trial instead of waiting to see if the brass or the Assembly felt it was even necessary.

Of course, Maes had known just as well as he and Riza did that one day he too might have found himself in a courtroom with his character on trial or at least having to vouch for Roy’s.

But that had been a different time.

“It was easier to imagine doing this when we didn’t have as much to lose,” Roy said out loud, resting his head against hers.

She pulled away from him, breaking his embrace without moving away completely, and fixed him with an angry glare.

“You’re crazy! Back then we had so much to lose! What if you had never been Fuhrer in the first place because you had died?! If I couldn’t protect you!”

Roy looked off to the side, selecting his words.

“I guess I always imagined someone who supported my ideas would work towards the position in my place. But now I have to finish what I started and I have to be acquitted to do so. I can’t just hope that everything will turn out fine when I was barely halfway through the government reforms. If the brass takes over again, they’ll probably try to move everything backwards.” 

He tried to pull her back against him but she wouldn’t move so easily. He let his head fall forward in defeat and sighed into her arm. “And, besides, I can’t lose you now.”

Riza’s face grew gentler but remained serious.

“Losing each other was a threat almost every day before. How is this different?” she asked, truly wanting to understand his outrageous discernment of their condition.

He lifted his head up from his bowed position and slid an arm around her waist. This time she didn’t resist.

“Because I finally have you. Because we’ve also only just started.”

He watched her lips curve downwards into a more pronounced frown, her lower lip quivering slightly as her amber eyes became glassy with unshed tears. He knew she wouldn’t cry, she wouldn’t let herself most of the time to the point where he would have to ask her to when it looked like she might burst, but he realized that it wasn’t just to keep a strong face. Her eyes glanced over to the outside corner of the cell where the guard with the limp was standing still as a statue.

It was then that Roy realized everything they had said, not just today but the entire time they had taken up residence in this jail, had doubtlessly been heard by him. He shifted Riza’s legs over the side of the bed and walked towards the bars.

“Hastings!” he called out to the guard who looked up immediately and walked rigidly over to stand in front of the cell. His leg always became harder to move on when rain was coming and he could already hear the slight trickle of droplets outside the window.

“Yes, Fuhrer?” he asked with a nod of confirmation.

“Anything that you may have overheard here remains private,” he commanded, trying not to sound too much like the military officer that he was. 

Hastings nodded again obediently, unable to get the soldier out of himself either.

“It’s part of my oath, sir,” he stated to make certain that he would believe his promise.

Roy smiled genuinely at him.

“Thank you. You are a good man.”

He started to turn back towards the bed when Hastings spoke up again.

“Fuhrer Mustang, sir,” he started nervously, warily trying to chose his words. “I’m not supposed to do this but . . . what if I was to take a long break and not find someone to fill my post? Maybe for an hour?”

Surprised, Roy looked over at Riza who smiled slightly in reception of the offer. 

“We would be so grateful,” he said emphatically, the fact that he was technically breaking a rather severe rule of no consequence to either of them.

Hastings grinned into the cell and limped out of view towards the heavy metal doors that separated their cell from the rest of the prison.

The second the door’s lock was set in place, Roy was back on the bed, pulling her into his arms.

\---

The air surrounding the hundreds, more likely thousands, of bystanders and press outside of the courtroom should have been warm from so many people exhaling but there was a chill and a dampness present from the lengthy thunderstorm the night before. The steps were slick under Roy’s feet and although the rain had stopped, the air felt wet, uncomfortable, and made breathing feel more difficult than it should be. That could have been nerves; he blamed the air.

Riza’s hand in his was shaking lightly despite her poise and she felt cold as ice. Since he often wore gloves he took careful notice of how her hand felt in his on the rare occasions when flesh contact wasn’t blocked by cloth and she was usually warm, alive. He moved his hand around in an effort to warm her up, not wanting to allow his mind to connect the idea of cold skin with death.

“You’re crushing my fingers,” she whispered gently in his ear as they stood awaiting the verdict. He apologized softly and stopped moving, loosening his grip a little but not too much. He was prepared, should MPs try to drag them apart in a few minutes, to not let her go easily.

A man behind them clearing his throat brought the noise of the square down and all eyes looked above them to the top of the stairs. Roy looked at Riza instead who was already watching his own face. She was trying to hold a blank countenance but her eyes were at half mast, brows furrowed in concern, and she looked more terrified than he had ever seen her, even with her trying so vehemently to hide it.

“Riza Mustang will be released from custody . . .”

Roy couldn’t keep the smile from spreading across his face, his anxiety diminished, even though her own face didn’t waver in the slightest.

 _She’s safe_ , he thought appreciatively, holding her hand tighter in his against her previous comment. _If nothing else, at least she’s safe._

The chattering and cheers fell on deaf ears to both of them, Roy feeling a sense of elation and Riza still feeling unbearable dread. In spite of their own neglect to the rest of the world, the noises all but drowned out the rest of the declaration of her innocence until the man told everyone to quiet down for the other result.

“Roy Mustang will be released from custody and reinstated as Fuhrer of Amestris . . .”

Riza sucked in a strained breath and closed her eyes for a few seconds to gain her strength again before looking at him and letting the smallest smile grace her own lips. He knew later he wouldn’t have to tell her to cry because they would both be unable to stop from expressing their immense relief that they were free and able to continue on with their goals.

The euphoria was so overpowering that Roy almost missed hearing the conclusion of his own verdict.

“Investigations will be conducted on all State Alchemists involved in the Ishvalan War and other persons of interest to see if other trials will be necessary to determine the appropriate action . . .”

Roy’s enthusiasm was buried as he silently panicked, trying to mentally list all the people he knew who might become involved in this new case: Armstrong will be fine whether he’s tried or not, Knox will require substantial assistance as he will almost certainly be tried. . .

Riza mouthed out, “Marcoh” and Roy nodded subtly. He had been safely hidden in Ishval for the past eight years with a different face and a different name but should they really try to track him down, there’s no way he could be tried. He wouldn’t be able to tell the truth; his involvement with the homunculi could not be explained and as a result, he would unquestionably be punished.

 _I’ll have to pen a letter to Emperor Yao once I get back to work_ , Roy planned. _He owes me enough that hiding a fugitive in his country . . . again shouldn’t be a problem._

Suddenly, he realized the crowd had become silent and all eyes were on him. He was supposed to say something, give one of his famous speeches.

But his mind felt like liquid; his only thought was about how much he wanted to tear through the once rambunctious, now placid crowd towards the awaiting car that would take them home, slam the door, put up the divider between the front seats and back, and finally be able to break down in private where only she could see.

But that wasn’t an option; he had an image to uphold as leader of the country, so instead he straightened out his shoulders and took a deep breath, turning to face the crowd below.

“Even though I must admit that I feel the verdict is far too kind, I am happy to be able to return as Fuhrer with a clean slate,” he said, biting his tongue hard to keep from getting too personal about how he would never feel total absolution. “Now if you’ll excuse us, my wife and I would like nothing more than to return home. This has been an emotionally trying time and I would like to be able to return to office as soon as possible with a level head so I may continue to lead with nothing but my absolute best.”

\---

Following the rather controversial results of the trials of Fuhrer Mustang and his wife there were debates spouting up in every paper, on every news radio program about whether or not the verdicts were just and unbiased. Virtually no one questioned the decision to let Riza Mustang walk free as her particular case had convinced the public that, while perhaps not every single soldier should be left unpunished, the vast majority of them acted in a manner that was deemed acceptable for a soldier.

For the Fuhrer however, some saw the trial as enlightening. They argued that he did deserve freedom after hearing how he really felt about the situation and about everything he has done for Ishval since the war. Others said that his feelings were inconsequential to the question at hand and that his status had saved him from a sentence.

No agreement could be reached and none ever would, Roy knew.

But there was one thing he could be happy about.

About nine months after the end of the beginning of the Ishval Trials, the headline spanning every newspaper in Amestris wasn’t about more soldiers bearing their souls before the critical crowd of a courtroom or about the radical groups continuing to cause problems even with the Assembly now holding the most power in government but about how Mrs. Mustang had given birth to a healthy baby boy who they had chosen to name Maes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Here's a gift.
> 
>  
> 
> Bonus Dialogue (I couldn't really work in):
> 
> “Your father has been rolling in his grave since the second he died.”
> 
> “After he died, if I had asked you to marry me, how would you have reacted?”
> 
> “I would have been confused. I didn’t know you had any feelings like that for me at the time. You never tried to court me or ask me to go out with you. I would wonder if you were asking out of pity. . . But if you had shown your intentions to be sincere, I would have said yes. I had no solid direction at the time and marrying you would have seemed like the best option possible. I was a different person then.”
> 
> “I would have actually been doing what he had asked of me instead of filling your head with my naïve dreams and running out on you after getting the secrets to flame alchemy. I would be protecting you and any children we would have instead of you protecting me.”
> 
> “I would have been such a young widow.”
> 
> “All things happen for a reason.”
> 
> “A strange sentiment coming from a man of science.”
> 
> “Well, don’t alchemists believe that everything in the universe is connected? It’s not too far off.”
> 
> “All things.”


End file.
